poop – untitledlife

Female poop etiquette #2

I’ve got a� whole littany of bathroom pet peeves. In fact, I’ve written an entire post� on poop etiquette. Consider this an� epilogue, for I could not possibly sum up my philosophy on bathroom habits in a few� trite paragraphs.

Guys, I know you� will probably not� relate to anything I am about to say, because most of you will poop anywhere and in front of anyone. This is something you take great pride in, along with the color,� texture and size of your kill. You’d� take a duke� in the reflecting pool of the Washington Monument if it meant three of your homies could be there to witness its girth.

Girls, on the other hand, we have issues about pooping in public. On those rare occasions when we are forced, either by nature or circumstance, to do so, the healing process can take weeks. In fact, we have been� known to quit talking to, if not altogether avoid,� people that we’ve pooped in front of.� I sometimes wonder if this isn’t what caused the rift between Madonna and Courtney Love. We may never know.

Now we all poop, and we all know that we all poop. But nevertheless, on any given day, you will find me holed up in the handicap bathroom stall (i.e. the crapping condo), waiting for some dumb ass to leave so I can get on with getting on. These lurkers� wash their hands, fluff their hair and cook� up skillets of corned beef hash,� knowing damn well that� I� am� sitting not ten feet away, quivering and shaking as every inch of my being denies what is the most natural of body functions.� I grit� my teeth and rock back and forth, hoping that something — anything — will swoop down and pluck this interloper out of� my midst� so� I can get to steppin.’

Through the cracks in the stall,� I can see the woman lingering. Oh good god. Hurry the fuck up! Dry your hands. Throw away the paper towels. Now head towards the door. No! No no no! Do NOT under any circumstances re-tuck your shirt. At this point, I’m beginning to re-think my modesty. Why put myself through this? Let’s just get on with the show. But by now, I’ve been damming up the flood waters for so long, that� a supernatural� amount of gas has accumulated. It seeems nature is one powerful bitch. Suddenly, the Grand Canyon doesn’t seem so impressive. Let a little pressure build up, and you’ve got yourself� the� eighth� world wonder.

As I ponder the magnificence that is my lower g.i.,� she leaves.� No sooner does the door click shut then BLAMMO! An unholy sound emanates from below as a poop the size of a Labrador� snakes out of my back end. Mission Control, I think we’ve blown an o-ring.

But that’s neither here nor there, for� at this moment, I feel the cool waters splashing up against my withers. Now you all know the extreme comfort that one experiences after Elvis leaves the building. Some have visions. Others hear choruses of angels. Me, I feel this sweet white wave of comfort. It embraces me like a forgiven child. In the immortal words of Steven Tyler, I could stay in this moment forever, that is, if it weren’t for the pressing need to deliver� the requisite� mercy flush.

�

untitledeye: How not to sell your house.

I saw this photo on� a homes-for-sale-by-owner web site. And yes, this was the picture they posted to sell their home.�

Knowing how much dogs like to mark their territory, I can imagine that having a photo of yourself pooping on someone’s lawn� and then having� a lowly human� post it online for everyone to see is quite auspicious. Among the canine set, I bet this is the digital equivalent of� laying down a fattie� on every lawn in the world.� If this doesn’t get him some freaknasty Poodle punanny, nothing� will.� �

At a loss for words.

Well I’ll be damned. I honestly have nothing to say right now. I spent all day at work on Friday working on freelance projects. That’s damn near erotic, if you ask me. Doing freelance on The Man’s dime makes me hard.

Between my three gigs (full-time job, freelance, blog), I write all the goddamned time. I write at work. I write in the kitchen. I write on the sofa. I write in the home office. I’d write on the toilet, but to me, poop time is sacred. The only multi-tasking I do during poop time is tweezing, and even that is pushing it.

My muse is out to lunch, and to make things worse, the porn filter on my work computer has decided to flag Perez Hilton. Jesus, I can barely type his name without getting the urge to abandon this post and pay him a visit. Damn you, porn filter! I thought about visiting Juggs.com, so as to distract The Machine. A shell game, if you will. But I’d hate to set off that big alarm I assume is on my boss’s computer — the one that goes off whenever I hit a blocked site. What the fuck did people do at work before the Internet? Those must’ve been some dark times. My mind, it reels.

Well, starting today, I’m hunkering down. I’m going to abandon my sordid past and put in an honest eight hours of work. It may damn near kill me, but I’m going to do it. Not because I’m feeling guilty. Oh no no no. I have my quarterly review on Friday, and I find it hard to look boss woman in the eyes when my eyes are bloodshot from playing Shanghai at my desk.

Natural selection.

Where I work, the women’s bathroom has three stalls. As I enter the bathroom, the question always arises — which stall shall I choose? I could take the oversized handicapped stall,� which gets marks� for its thoughtful leg room and comfy arm rests. Or, shall I be� considerate and� opt for the smaller stall on the right? I can’t help but think that the middle stall (also smallish) is the way to go, for its seat sees only a modicum of assage. I say this, because I have spent an embarassing amount of time logicizing it. I deduce that the middle stall would be the cleanest, for no one would� use it, unless the others were full. Taking it would mean that at any given time, you could sitting mere inches away from someone else with their pants at their ankles. It would be akin to entering an elevator and standing right next to one other person in there.

I wonder if everyone else goes through this littany of questions as they enter the bathroom. I have issues with public bathrooms — I have had them since childhood. Whenever the opportunity presents itself, untitledmother takes great pleasure in recounting the time when I held my poop for five days when I was a kid,� because I� didn’t want to� unload in someone else’s toilet while we were on vacation.

As I’ve grown older, I have become accustomed to pooping in public restrooms. But you can be damn well sure that I have the common decency to hold it until no one else is in the room. I don’t care if my brow is sweating and my o-ring is quivering like a whore in church. I simply do not poop in the company of others. I mean, what if I happen to unleash holy hell from my nether regions, and� the sound� of “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” comes chortling out of my blowhole? You just know that� my stallmates would look under the dividers, compelled by that same shameful curiousity that keeps� one watching the horseplay addicts on HBO’s “Real Sex” series, and see my shoes there. Oh, the horror.

Thank god not everyone� is like this. Take untitledbrother-in-law, for example. He would gladly drive 20 miles� out of his� way just to� poop in our toilet. And if he’s able to clog it or god forbid, leave behind some racing stripes, well then, all the better. I’m not sure if this is an exercise in� demarkation, or if� there is some strange magnetic force surrounding our home that� pushes the poop out of him like a sausage press. I just find it odd that whenever he is here, it happens. He probably has no idea that I’m taking mental notes. But given my history with toilets, I notice these things. Does this make me strange? Probably no stranger than untitledhusband, who gets hard from the mere smell of electronics and the sensation of the Tivo remote in his hand.